Each time he went into the hammam I waited outside, pretending to take an interest in the shops selling herbs and syrups, before tailing him again as soon as he came out, guided by his fragrance of cedar.
On the fourth occasion of this kind, driven by boredom, I discovered a welcoming and not very crowded kahvehane down the street. From the benches outside, resting against the wall, you could keep an eye on the entrance to the baths. As soon as I sat down I took off my slippers, ordered a coffee and, not even thinking about it, started listening in on the conversations of the other patrons.
Two bearded old men, sucking on the rims of their cups, were loudly commenting on the news of the day. The Doge had ordered the arrest of all the Jews and Ottomans living in Venice. Now it was time to pay back the favor and do the same with the Venetians in Galata. No, quite the contrary. Precisely because they were treated well in Istanbul, they should demand that their compatriots do the same at home with the good Muslims. And the Jews? They needed putting down here too, not freedom. They needed sorting out, them and their wives, always jeweled up like queens; who knows how much they enjoyed humiliating the good Muslims. That was why God, the Merciful, the Compassionate, had punished their arrogance by setting fire to the Jewish quarter some months ago.
I ordered a plate of cakes while a toothless young man, his face covered with scars, recommended the services of a prostitute to two others. A fourth, older than his companions, dismissed the youth’s tedious advice and suggested instead blond Mursel, a Bulgarian tellak at the baths, who could pleasure you three times in a row with his mouth. This boy, most importantly, was also a good poet, and liked to recite his erotic verses and love lyrics. The toothless boy screwed up his nose and said that only an ignorant heretic like the Shah of Persia would write his poems in Turkish. The truly literate and the great sultans wrote in Arabic or in Persian. Yes, of course, everyone agreed, but no one understood Persian, and if you don’t understand erotic poetry how on earth are you going to get a boner?
I paused with my cup in midair. Then I finished my coffee and ate the last baklava. For a few minutes I contemplated a flight of midges, until I saw Traverso coming out of the baths and walking away. I paid what I owed, my fingers still sticky with honey. I quickly put on my slippers and headed for the hammam.
Inside, beneath the great dome, stood a white limestone fountain. The water that poured from it, slipping from one basin to the other, filled the silence like the voice of a stream. All around, cushions and carpets accommodated a dozen clients; on the seats along the walls the same number of men were taking their clothes off. Daylight imprinted the colors of the stained glass on their faces.
A freckled servant came toward me to hand me clogs and a bath towel.
“Mursel?” I asked.
“I’ll get him for you right away, Effendi; he’s just come free. Meanwhile you can get undressed and have a drink.”
Mursel was a bony young man, almost beardless, with curls so blond they looked white. Like the other tellaks he was naked to the waist and wearing a blue cloth skirt. He was holding a pot of aromatic oil. He talked to me in a low voice.
“If you want a poem, Effendi, it’s three aspers for a short one and five for a long one.”
Having pocketed the three coins, Mursel beckoned to me to follow him into the hot room. We passed under one of the arches and sat down in a tub, alone, sheltered from the eyes of the other bathers. When he knelt down in front of me and made to lower his head between my legs, I stopped him with a hand on his forehead.
“No verses, Homer. What I want is information.”
Over the next few days, still on Traverso’s heels, I made a bet with myself. I put twenty aspers on the meetings he would have before he set off for Crete, while his men loaded the final cases onto the mahona.
First stop: Solomon Ashkenazi, to receive from his hands the bailiff’s letters, guarded like relics in one of the Jewish doctor’s secret drawers.
Next: his sweetheart, to take final leave before he boarded the ship, like any self-respecting seafaring man, with her perfume still on him.
That was exactly what happened that last afternoon, the only difference being that the sweetheart was a fair-haired boy.
Once more I followed the Genoese to the door of the hammam. I counted to one hundred, to keep myself from being overimpetuous, and then stepped inside.
I was greeted by the same servant as usual. He asked me politely if I needed Mursel, because unfortunately, just a moment before. . I told him not to bother Mursel, but to show me where the man who had requested his services had left his clothes. Five silver aspers appeared in the palm of my hand.
The boy replied that for any kind of theft in the dressing rooms he would be given twenty lashes, and that twenty lashes were worth at least five more coins.
“I’m not a thief,” I told him and added one more asper, promising him a cruel death if he spoke of my visit to anybody. The young tellak brought his fingers to his mouth and pinched his lips as if gluing them together. He gestured to me to follow him. In no particular hurry, I set my slippers down on the mahogany shelf, put on a pair of clogs and complied.
The boy turned the key in the lock and half-opened the door. I quickly rummaged through Traverso’s bag and clothes. The bailiff’s letters were folded and hidden between the lining and the leather. I recognized the seal with the Barbaro family crest, a shield with a disc in the middle. Then I put the papers back where I had found them, having no need for anything else. I hurried to retrieve my shoes, returned my clogs and towel, and headed for the exit.
21
I arrived at Palazzo Belvedere as evening fell, keen to tell Nasi what I had discovered amid the steam of the hammam. I was told that he had just locked himself away in the library, with Gomez and Master Fitch, and that he had given orders to be left in peace.
Perhaps it was fate, that I had to wait every time before passing on my discoveries. In fact, Nasi was always busy, always meeting someone or making some sort of decision. I would have taken advantage of the fact to enjoy a hot bath, but as soon as I got to my room the sharp scent of wine changed my mind. The night before, Dana and I had poured it from the flask, mixing it with opium juices left to dissolve in the bottom of our glasses. Now I served myself the nectar that remained in the jug and tried a sip. It was still good, but I didn’t want to drink it on my own, lying in the bathwater talking to the wall. I washed her glass, hid it under my jerkin and went down to the garden with mine in my hands.
I walked along the central avenue, trying to remember the names of the trees. Dana had taught them to me, pointing them out from the bedroom window. Pomegranate, Judas tree, ash, perhaps a plane tree. She said that Adam had contributed to the Creation by giving names to the things of the world. All of mankind’s other works were the fruit of the Fall. I, not to be outdone, had shown her the constellations and told her the legend of Queen Cassiopeia.
Past the duck pond, I slipped between the box hedges and emerged into the circular clearing, where Dana gave shape to her memories.
I knew that at that time of day I would find her there.
White and red roses peeped from the arch above the stone bench. She was hoeing the ground around the carob tree and singing, in a language that sounded to me like Greek, although its melody reminded me of a Sephardic song that I had heard a thousand times in my mother’s voice. Lullabies unite the shores of the Mediterranean more than do the ancient routes of the Phoenician merchants.